


submissive niall

by fxcknouiam (orphan_account)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, Sub Niall, fem dom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 22:06:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3427250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/fxcknouiam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>im orphan-ing this because I WANT SOMEONE TO FINISH THIS OR GET AN IDEA OFF OF THIS preferably with zayn as the dom but w///e</p>
            </blockquote>





	submissive niall

Let's call him Niall, though his name hardly matters. And while at it, let's call him a man, even if he wasn't much of one to begin with. Oh, he was tall and strong and hairy and all that, even nicely hung, but he was... let's call him one of a kind. He knew he was inferior to women. In fact he knew all men were - and he'd always known that.

As a toddler he let little girls pummel him. They'd straddle his body and slap his face. He'd cry, but he'd never protect himself. As a boy girls took advantage of his inability to say no to whatever they asked him. It never dawned on them to be thankful; they took it for granted. Some even despised him for it. Later, as a teenager, he ran their errands and did their homework. He also allowed them to treat him like filth - calling him names and laughing at him whenever they didn't just ignore him. He wasn't hurt or even surprised; he knew it was how things were meant to be.

Boys ridiculed him for it. They called him names like wimp and faggot. They also teased him, trying to lure him into fights. He never took their bait. Most of the time he just turned away. He wouldn't let them taunt him into a fight if he could prevent it. He was stronger and taller than most of them, but if he couldn't avoid them, he would just raise his arms to ward off their punches. He knew it cost him all respect, but that didn't bother him. Boys didn't count; they were nobodies, just like him. The only difference was that he knew it and they didn't - yet.

Soon his lack of response discouraged his bullies.

As a teenager he'd adored girls from a distance. He'd envied them for their relaxed sensuality when he saw them walking hand in hand in the schoolyard. He admired their perfect, graceful bodies and the elegant way they moved. He saw how easy they touched and kissed without a trace of embarrassment. He noticed them sitting on benches braiding each other's hair, huddling together, kissing and sharing secrets, while around him the rowdy silliness of boys raged. He knew he was as male as any of them, but he'd never belong to their uncouth world of blustering violence and Neanderthal grunting. He also knew he would never be part of the girls' world. Of course he yearned to be with them, even be one of them. He'd tried, disastrously, only to find out it was impossible. He would never cross the fence between him and these superior creatures.

But he could dream, couldn't he?

***

So now he was a man, or to be more precise: he'd settled into the uncouth shape of one. While growing up he'd suffered all the scorches of adolescence that came with the job - the raging hormones, the brainless response to tits and asses, the relentless erections and the blind urge to empty his balls. He knew women found him attractive - his looks, his voice, his cock. And he knew that any normal, blustering male would take advantage of that, thinking it meant something - or, more probably, not thinking at all.

He never stopped thinking. Even when he got to third base with girls (as it is so crudely called in the adolescent lingo) something kept nagging. He couldn't believe he really satisfied them, or himself for that matter. Of course there was the messy spurting and the convincing spasms and moans of the girl he fucked, but there always, always was this certainty that he ought to know better. He was certain that women just toyed with him, as with all men. They saved their true orgasms for themselves, when they had sex with each other -- hot, gracious sex; a dizzying dance of tongues and fingers that made their gorgeous bodies arch and churn, their voices sing like angels.

With men they played a devious game, disguising the truth with layers of insincere adoration and mock compliments. All they were really after was prestige and money. He knew he meant nothing to them; it was lust that forced him to go along. But whenever he'd played the male ape to their soft sweet bodies, there would be shame afterwards. There would be this haunting feeling of having been the clumsy bull trampling its way through precious porcelain, leaving only shards and splinters of what might have been.

He tried dating less. He tried avoiding women, even if every fiber of his being screamed to be with them -- or at least be allowed around them in the silly hope to catch a glimpse of their eternal secret.

It became harder and harder to even look at girls, though watching them had always been his greatest desire. He started training his budding arousal to a point where it would morph into a wave of shame -- shame that would dilute his lust, spreading it through his bloodstream and turning it harmless. It worked, but it often left him with a blinding headache. Soon he lived in constant shame. He avoided girls and retired into an invisible shell made of work and boredom. It protected him, both against what he feared and what he craved, just to avoid his next disappointment.

And then he saw her.


End file.
